


A Cat in Gloves: Part 4

by esoemp



Series: A Cat in Gloves [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Case Fic, Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Food Kink, Hound of the Baskervilles, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John is getting sick of this shit, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Saint John, Sex, Sex Is Fun, Sherlock attempts bribery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9664355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esoemp/pseuds/esoemp
Summary: Now that their relationship has progressed to the next level, Samantha tries to persuade Sherlock to let her provide assistance on cases too. He positively hates the idea but acquiesces when she gets an unexpected admirer.My take on the Hound of the Baskervilles follows.





	1. A Matter of Complication

**Author's Note:**

> Time for some attempted case fic. Not taken from BBC Sherlock but canon. Please excuse my bumbling. But hey, there's sex! Hopefully I'm getting better at writing that so it makes up for any silliness in other areas. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and any of your comments or suggestions!

Samantha was mad. She was really and truly ticked off at Sherlock. _That arrogant prick_ , she snarled as she threw on her jacket and grabbed her carryall. The man had some serious nerve to tell her what to do...

It started out as just another lovely afternoon at the flat on 221B Baker Street. Sherlock and John were going over a case and she was cleaning up the gory sludge her boyfriend made in the kitchen seemingly everyday. He had become acutely inspired to make messes in the week following their date and sleepover at her apartment. She grinned just thinking about it.

 _Why can’t you keep it in the sink Sherlock_ , she moaned in her mind as she swabbed up a piece of what _looked_ to be a human ear. Still, listening to the animated discussion between the two men in the study was her second favorite part of the day. Her first was fucking Sherlock senseless every time John went out to run an errand. Saint John had the decency to make them long errands after she arrived at the flat after work, and said nothing about the state of disarray the place was in when he returned. Samantha wasn’t prepared to put her plan to sexually immobilize her detective into action just yet. But thanks to some late evenings on the Internet she had plenty of ideas how. His poor riding crop was getting dusty in the umbrella stand.

“But Sherlock, that doesn’t make any sense,” John sighed, his hand waving in exasperation. Samantha smiled. _Wait for it…_

“What is it _like_ for you John?” Sherlock countered.

 _What is it like for you, Sherlock_ , Samantha answered in her head. There wasn’t another living soul who could possibly be so brilliant and so hopelessly impatient once he was on a case. Or hopelessly insensitive. As far as she could tell she and John were the only people he’d ever held his tongue for—the rest of the human population were verbally eviscerated at random as they made contact with his genius. Sherlock was also hopeless in other ways, which she found endearing. He became so focused on the facts of an investigation that he’d quite forget he was talking about human beings and not animals. The seemingly insignificant tells people had—the ways their eyes darted and in what direction, pupil dilation, cadence of breathing, in addition to the odd little habits people took for granted and thought no one could possibly notice—were all glaringly obvious pieces of a puzzle in Sherlock’s brain, which appeared to spit them out into nice digestible bits of information he could use to solve a case. _Well, digestible for him._ The rest of the world was expected to catch up and it exhausted him to have to explain his reasoning. He only seemed to bother doing so with John and an Inspector Lestrade, who she hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting.

Of course, with Samantha he was divinely patient; he positively reveled in the opportunity to impress her with his deductive reasoning. Which was great, because despite her ability to understand what he was saying there was no way she would have been able to observe the crazy missing pieces in a crime scene the way her boyfriend could. God she loved calling him that. She caught him looking in her direction and she smiled sweetly. They had just finished fucking on the chair he was pacing around before John got home. She and Sherlock had to hide in the bathroom giggling as they threw on their clothes again. Saint John still hadn’t said anything though. Bless him.

“I’m saying that it doesn’t make sense that a missing water pitcher means the accountant did it.” John said flatly.

“And I’m saying that—” Suddenly Sherlock was interrupted by the buzzing of John’s phone. He rolled his eyes and made a grand gesture that he’d wait till he had John’s attention again as his friend answered.

“Yes. Yes. We can be there in 15 minutes.”

Sherlock moaned.

“No. I don’t know where his phone is.” John looked up at Sherlock accusingly. Sherlock continued to pace back and forth, completely distraught by this interruption.

Samantha’s body stiffened with apprehension. Then it was for another case! Scotland Yard was definitely on the phone. Sherlock wouldn’t be so upset if he didn’t know it would be a while before he could return to his accountant murder mystery. He’d probably already explained it all to Lestrade in the form of “go get this guy he did it”, but in a much more Sherlock-y fashion. Samantha hurried her cleaning and had just untied her apron when John got off the phone. It had been weeks since Sherlock had taken on another case outside of the ones in his inbox and she was determined to be a part of it.

“Where _is_ your phone Sherlock?” John proceeded to dial Sherlock’s number. Gurgled buzzing made little bubbles in a bin filled with…well, Samantha wasn’t sure. Only that Sherlock had explicitly told her not to go _near_ that experiment. She moved towards it to get a better view, wondering if nitrile gloves would allow her to recover the device without incident or if the damn thing was disintegrating in the muck in front of her eyes. Sherlock rushed over to her and grabbed her hands, which seemed to have a mind of their own—going in sans gloves.

He held her fingers and looked into her face after he checked each of the digits for damage. “ _Ma chéri_ , I will get another phone. I promise. But I have to go now. You can lock up?” He quirked one hopeful eyebrow in request.

 _What the fuck_. Did he just _baby_ talk her? “No way, I’m coming with you,” she declared adamantly, holding her chin up to his throat. This man was too tall to loom over but she hoped he’d get the idea she meant to do exactly that.

His face blanched then he smiled sweetly. “Not this time. Maybe…another time. You study up on that French you don’t think I know about.” He pecked her cheek and turned to run after John, who had already descended the stairs. Samantha stood for a millisecond with her mind spinning before she threw her apron to the floor and grabbed her bag.

“I’ll teach you some French dirty boy,” she growled, irritated beyond belief he would blow her off by trying to turn it into the _wifey_ game. _Fucking rude._

Samantha was grateful the two men were so focused on their destination they hadn’t seemed to notice her tailing them. She’d taken a counter surveillance course after the stalking incident with Nathan. She hoped that counter surveillance was almost as good as regular surveillance or she’d have to hear more baby talk before being escorted back home by a very grumpy Sherlock. If she could just nonchalantly show up at the scene he’d have to wait till they were alone to confront her about her disobedience.

Fortunately, the crime scene wasn’t more than 15 minutes walking distance or they’d have taken a cab. She was a little disappointed not being able to say, “Follow that car!” like they did in the movies. But this saved her some cash. She wanted to get Sherlock a present for his birthday. Which she was sure he’d forgotten. Birthdays were not significant for this man but he’d have to get used to the idea.

Samantha watched as Sherlock and John casually made their way under the police tape and into a disreputable looking apartment building. Damn. The front of the place was crawling with officers. Samantha picked out a young one before pulling down her hair and shaking it into loose curls. She slapped her cheeks to make them red and puffy and ran over to her unsuspecting accomplice.

“Oh my God!” She huffed desperately. “Have those idiots already gone in?”

“Ah ma’am, you can’t go in there…” Rookie cop began to say then processed the second line of her question. “Oh yeah, you mean the _world’s only consulting_ detective and his doctor friend. Bloody prick.”

“Jesus, you aren’t kidding. He’s my new boss,” Samantha threw some hair out of her eyes, making sure some of it stayed stuck in her mouth so she’d have to pull it away. The poor boy gaped at her. “The asshole ordered me to go get his phone and left without me. Can you believe that? I’ve only been working for him for a day!”

“Oh…well I can take it to him,” accomplice number one suggested obediently.

“Oh God, I’m sorry but he’d kill me if I let you. You know how he is about his _property_. Thanks though. You’re very sweet to offer.” _Take the fucking bait,_ she cursed in her mind. “He said he needed it for the interrogation or something. I dunno how that man thinks sometimes. Who needs a fucking _phone_ for an investigation?”

Rookie snorted, “That sounds just like him.” He eyed her a little too intimately before making a decision. “Ta, well I can’t have a lovely girl like you losing her job because of a mistake he made. I’ll take you up there. It’s pretty messy though—have you ever been to a crime scene before?” He looked at her doubtfully.

“Oh yeah, I was a forensic investigator in the states,” she lied. “The things I saw there are nothing like that here. You’d think with my credentials he’d have a little more respect than to treat me like his gopher.”

“That man is a piece of work alright.” He gestured for her to follow him inside. Samantha didn’t flinch at the gurney with a dead body in tow being lifted down the stairs past her. She’d seen way worse at Sherlock’s place. Unless it was oozing pus she didn’t give a damn. Finally they arrived at the scene in question.

Samantha nearly lost her composure and laughed. Sherlock was frantically dancing around the forensics crew pointing and telling them where they’d find evidence, clearly pleased with himself. Right up until he turned and saw her standing in the door.

Samantha expected him to be angry, but not _livid_. He raced over to her and blocked her view of the scene with his body. “What the _hell,_ Samantha,” he hissed as he grabbed her shoulders and gave her a little shake. For a moment Samantha couldn’t reconcile his treatment and her jaw went slack.

“Oy, watch yer mouth with the lady. Just because she works for you doesn’t mean—” the rookie interjected and put a hand on Sherlock’s arm.

Samantha winced as Sherlock glared at the officer with a look that might kill an old lady in the street. He narrowed his eyes at Samantha next. “And why, pray tell is my… _assistant_ here with you right now when I _clearly_ asked her to stay home?”

“You forgot your phone remember?” Samantha offered innocently enough—licking her lips and shooting him a look in return that she hoped said ‘If you don’t fucking unhand me and invite me inside I’m going to kiss you in front of all these people and I swear to God—’

Ah. Message delivered. Sherlock let her arms go and motioned with an incline of his head for her to join John in the corner, who looked like he was having the time of his life watching their exchange. Samantha looked back at the distraught rookie and gave him a little smile before winking at Sherlock wickedly. He was actually gnashing his teeth in frustration.

“John.” Samantha said flatly as she joined him.

“Samantha.” John began, and then had to cover his grin with his palm to keep the snicker from escaping. “The young one huh? That was bloody good work.”

“Thanks John,” she said coolly. “So, what’s the situation here?” She tried to sound professional and serious but now she was having a hard time not giggling. Sherlock gave her a dark look and she clamped her mouth shut. “He’s gonna kill me isn’t he.” It was not a question.

“Nah. He’s just…adjusting to the idea.”

“The idea of what? I helped you guys out on a case before.” Samantha was incredulous. What was good for the goose should be good for the gander, as her 7th foster mother used to say.

“Yes. And you were shot.” John sounded serious now. He was concerned for his friend and for her.

“It’s just…that I…” she stumbled, looking at her hands as though they held the answer. How could she explain why she wanted to be there so badly when even she wasn’t entirely sure herself. Hearing about cases was one thing she enjoyed but she just wanted to see Sherlock in his element at a crime scene.

“Oh no, I definitely get it. Why do you think I’m here?” John grinned at her knowingly. Saint John. More like Death Wish John the way Sherlock talked about him sometimes. Of course Sherlock wasn’t any better. He had an incredible ability to take risks with his person on a routine basis. Which is where John came in—both as backup and physician. But where did she fit in?

Samantha heard Sherlock berating a woman who looked very much like a prostitute in the apartment’s kitchen. She was sitting on the chair next to a breakfast table covered in broken crack pipes and other related paraphernalia. The woman was shaking violently and looked more than a little desperate for the interrogation to end. Samantha saw bruises in the shape of fingers on her arms and felt an immediate sense of sympathy wash over her.

“Lestrade, explain to this woman why hiding her lowlife of a boyfriend isn’t going to help her case in court!” Sherlock bellowed before leaning over her face with maliciousness, “And _you_. I already know about the baby. When we find it you are going to jail for the rest of your life. I suggest you give your man up now or you’re going to have a terrible time in there. I’ll make _sure_ of it.”

 _Jesus he was taking out his rage at Samantha on this poor woman!_ John tried to reach for her arm but was too late. Samantha was already across the room, marching up to Sherlock, fully intending to slap him. The woman’s eyes were pleading with her for help.

“Back. Off. Sherlock.” Was what came out of her mouth instead of a slap from her hand. Sherlock curled his lips in disgust. Clearly he thought this was the epitome of rudeness on her part. Samantha gave him a look that made his eyes change shape into those of a deer. She was positively seething with rage. He stumbled back a little as Samantha pulled up a chair next to the woman and took up her hands in hers and squeezed, completely disregarding her boyfriend in that moment.

“What’s your name?” Samantha said gently. Tears streamed down the woman’s face. She was completely terrified and it would seem, given their surroundings and companions, rightfully so. 

“La—Laura,” she stuttered before looking at Sherlock then back to Samantha, who felt the woman relax her grip.

“That’s a lovely name,” Samantha cooed then heard Sherlock snort in disgust. She shot him another glare that made him recoil to the cabinet area and turned her attention back to Laura. “It’s alright Laura, my name is Samantha. And I promise he’s not going to hurt you. He’s just scared for the baby.”

Laura seemed to register this as a possibility, albeit an unlikely one. Her tears began to flow in little streams down her cheeks and onto her thick chest. A chest that had been breast-feeding only hours before by Samantha’s estimation. No other signs in the flat indicated the presence of an infant. The baby did not live there with her mother.

“Where is your mother, Laura?” Samantha asked in her most soothing voice. It’s what she would have wanted to be asked if she’d found herself in this situation. Laura hiccupped and looked down. Her mother did not approve of her daughter’s lifestyle—that was for certain.

“Can you call her?” Samantha instinctually knew what had happened.

“Absolutely not!” Sherlock was next to them in a second barking his disapproval.

“Sherlock, I swear to God if you have anything else to say I will fucking _make_ you regret it.” Samantha was focused now on Laura and wanted no more interruptions. “Go stand over by John if you can’t contain yourself any longer.”

Sherlock was mortified and balled his hands into fists at his side. John held back a little laugh. In an act of defiance Sherlock crossed his arms and stood over by the window where he could observe Laura’s reactions to Samantha’s questions. Surely he _knew_ what was going on.

“I—I can’t,” Laura began in a low whisper, and added, “He’ll hurt her.” She broke into a sob that shook her whole body.

“We could have been a family again if only he hadn’t shot Pedro.” Pedro was obviously mute on that subject.

“Laura, these men here are the most brilliant I’ve ever known. I promise you they will figure out a way to help your mother and your baby without them getting hurt,” then added meaningfully, “without him getting hurt either.”

Laura looked stunned and her eyes crinkled in a grateful sort of way. “You promise?”

“I promise they will do everything they can and I believe it will be enough. Just look at what this idiot did in your living room putting together what happened. He can figure out a way.”

Laura issued a little laugh at Samantha’s bravado. Samantha squeezed her hands. “Please Laura, I’m so sorry this happened to you. If you can help us find them there’s a chance it will turn out ok.” Well, definitely not ok, Samantha thought. But she hoped it would turn out where everyone else would at least live. The father clearly had a problem with drugs that surpassed his ability to be human. If he got help—it was a long shot—but perhaps they could be a family again in their own way. She was probably lying about Sherlock having any control over how the rescue operation went down and felt guilty.

Laura nodded and Samantha smiled. She had found her place, even if Sherlock wasn’t ready to accept it yet.


	2. Who Is This Terrorist?

“That was bloody stupendous,” John congratulated Samantha enthusiastically as they exited the building. Sherlock trailed behind them and Samantha ignored him. She wasn’t going to babysit his ego after that display of aggression towards the witness and victim. She could feel his eyes on the back of her head though. She was definitely in trouble. Would this be their first fight? Oh, she hadn’t thought about that…suddenly the adrenaline from her behavior melted into icy dread in the pit of her stomach. What had she been thinking treating Sherlock like that? In front of all those people?

John seemed to register the look of fear on her face and whispered confidently. “Just give him some time to have a good strop and he’ll end up telling you how brilliant that was. In time. Prepare yourself for a week of brooding just to be on the safe side. Logically he will come to the realization that you helped, even if you did wound his pride in front of the entire force. God, I wish you could have seen the look on Lestrade’s face. Expect to hear about _that_ for sure.” John had a sparkle in his eyes and his mouth drawn into a wide grin. Why was this man acting like he had a cohort in “Sherlock management”?

Fuck. She was utterly fucked. “Ah, I think I should probably head back home. That was...intense.” She turned to face Sherlock and he looked away from her in irritation. “We’ll talk later?” She was stupidly hopeful he might forgive her for this transgression. Samantha didn’t feel like she was entirely at fault. After all it was her intervention that helped them figure out where the father, child, and grandmother were located before things could get worse. Laura would have remained frozen if Sherlock continued to interrogate her like that, and it was Samantha’s presence at the scene that drove him to behave that way. She hoped that wasn’t his default setting anyway. Poor Pedro. She wondered if she’d end up cleaning his body parts out of the fridge within a week.

Sherlock nodded in response to her question then looked up and narrowed his eyes at her. She moved towards him but his body stiffened. God, he really was pissed. He wouldn’t break up with her would he? Her heart ached at the thought and she felt tears stinging her eyes. His face softened only fractionally, before he acquiesced in the only degree he was capable of at the moment. “Yes,” he muttered begrudgingly. “We can talk later.”

It wasn’t everything Samantha wanted but she opted to take it and get moving in case he changed his mind.


	3. Feeling Radical In Cotton

Samantha waited for what seemed like an eternity for a call from Sherlock. Hadn’t he gotten a new phone yet? He would certainly remember all his contacts by heart. How long would he stay mad at her? When John said Sherlock might be in a right strop for a week did that mean she wasn’t going to be able to see him that whole time? Samantha whimpered at the thought as she stared at her phone, willing it to ring. How did John _stand_ this? Several hours later she heard a knock on her door and nearly fell on the floor in surprise. Suddenly stricken with a desire to beg and plead forgiveness she stumbled towards her door and swung it open. She held her breath and tried to read the dark expression on Sherlock’s face for any hint of compassion.

Sherlock stood there a moment surveying her in return then pushed his way in, twirled her around and shut the door with her back. He held her arms above her head and leaned into her neck as she squealed in shock.

“Samantha,” he growled in a menacingly seductive purr, “Why did you do that?”

Samantha’s brain started to spaz out. Was he going to fuck her or interrogate her or fuck her while he was interrogating her? His body was wound so tightly she had a feeling it would be the last route. In fact she rather hoped it would be. Heat coiled tight in her belly and the muscles in her thighs clenched but she tried to remain focused in case another sort of punishment was still imminent.

“You know exactly what I was doing,” she managed as she leveled her eyes with his defiantly. “I was helping.”

“I saw that. _And you were brilliant._ ” He rumbled in the shell of her ear and she gasped. “But I can’t help feeling you weren’t _mine_ right then.”

Oh. So that was what this was about. Possession, rather than embarrassment.

“That’s not fair, Sherlock,” she tempered her tone as best she could. She didn’t want to lecture him, but she realized she really did want to stay on equal footing.

“You’re right. It’s not.” He answered simply enough, then let one of her arms go to grasp at her breast roughly. Samantha moaned despite herself. His eyes were dark. His voice was dark. He was struggling to maintain a control she wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t want to break. And underneath it all, she knew he was scared for her.

“Sherlock,” she panted, her mouth gone quite dry, “What can I do to make you feel better? I can’t apologize when I don’t regret what I did, but I can tell you I wish I hadn’t hurt you in doing it.”

But Sherlock wasn’t exactly ready to listen to reason. Deftly he reached down and unbuttoned her jeans and slid his long fingers into her panties. Samantha groaned at the invasion and he seemed satisfied to discover she was slick with desire. _Fuck_. Maybe she wasn’t interested in reason either.

He grinned and took his hand away, sucking some of her arousal off his fingertips. Samantha whined a little after losing the contact. He responded by unbuckling his belt and removing his pants along with his boxers, which dropped to the floor unceremoniously. His cock was ridiculously hard and she reached to stroke and pull at it. God she loved his cock. The foreskin was already retracted and it was dripping now with need. He groaned into her neck as he jerked off her pants and then panties. She kicked them aside so she could spread her legs. The ache between her legs had grown almost too painful and she desperately wanted to satisfy his need to dominate her in at least this way.

Sherlock let her arms go and she leaned in to kiss him. His tongue wrapped around hers in a delicious embrace and she sucked on the tip. He gripped her ass and lifted her like she weighed nothing at all—spreading her legs wider with his hands holding up her knees. He wasn’t the least bit gentle when he entered her, but Samantha didn’t really care. As it turned out she quite liked angry sex with Sherlock. She might make a point of disobeying him in the future if this was the result.

“Sorry?” Sherlock breathed the question into her ear. This was a definite threat. He wasn’t moving. Dammit. He _was_ going to torture her then.

Samantha nodded her head no, her eyes pleading for him to start fucking her. Being interrogated with him inside her…

“And you’ll do it again?” He challenged, his cock twitching inside her, hardening even further.

Samantha nodded yes. She most certainly would.

“Splendid.” Sherlock grinned wickedly and raised her arms above her head again, using the weight of his body to pin her against the door. He gripped her wrists and began to pump his cock into her ruthlessly—all the while looking inter her eyes with this intense expression...Was this punishment or approval? Her brain was short-circuiting with the pleasure she was receiving from the experience of having offended him. She lifted her head and met his eyes before she thrust her hips forward to ride the wave of his cock. He was not getting away with this dominance thing without a fight after all. She was going to have to remind him of her contributions to The Work too.

Sherlock grunted and gasped for breath with the exertion and sudden assistance he had of penetrating her deeper. She thought she detected the faintest hint of a smile on the corner of his mouth.

“Please— _AH!_ —Sherlock,” Samantha keened. “I don’t— _HA!_ —think I can hold— _oh God_ —any longer…”

He chuckled a little and looked down at the vision of his shaft sliding in and out of her. His beautiful dark chocolate curls beating against her own was indeed magnificent. He released her arms so he could cup her ass and grind those divine ellipses with his cock in and out of her pussy, stimulating her clit in the process. She cried out as she felt the rising wave and he thrust into her as hard as he could possibly manage, coming himself with an animalistic snarl of satisfaction. Feeling his cock pulse as he released his seed inside her sent her over the edge of ecstasy and she cried out his name as her muscles clenched around him savagely.

“So glad we had that talk,” He panted and laid his head against her shoulder, still grinding into her as the waves of their orgasms dissipated. The lick he gave her neck made her eyes roll into the back of her head. Registering her helplessness, he carried her to her bed and laid her down gently, stroking her hair away from her face as she felt the sticky liquid of their come soaking the bedspread. Absently she thought she would have to invest in more linens.

“I really do love you, Samantha.” He said with a serious but tender expression. “I don’t know what I’d do if something were to happen to you. And there are things I don’t want you to see.” He was trying. So brave, her Sherlock. He was being so brave.

“I know,” she caressed his face fondly. “I love you too and feel the same way. Every time you go out—I” Tears began to well up in her eyes. She swallowed hard and continued, “I know the kind of trouble you get into and I just want to be with you. I want to see the world through your eyes too.”

This last statement seemed to take him aback. Samantha was sure no one, with perhaps the exception of John and not in those words, had ever said something like that to him.

“Please, just stay with me tonight? I really need you here with me tonight.”

Sherlock kissed her palm and moved to lay behind her, his nose resting on the nape of her neck. She really did need him. That afternoon had taken more of a toil on her emotions than she’d predicted. This was what he and John did everyday, she wondered. No wonder Sherlock had shut down his emotions to such a degree. Somehow he recognized she was struggling with the processing of the afternoon’s events in Laura’s apartment and snuggled closer.

“Sleep now, _Ma chéri_. It will look better in the morning.” Sherlock soothed her knowingly.


	4. The Bomb of The Season

Sherlock made his way up the stairs in trepidation. Inevitably John would be waiting for him at the breakfast table and an interrogation was imminent. _At least I can tell him I’ve taken care of the matter to my satisfaction_ , Sherlock thought with a smug smile as he entered his flat. As expected, his friend was waiting for him at the kitchen table.

“So,” John ventured with a barely concealed snicker, “You seemed to have worked it out with Samantha. That was a quick turnaround for you. Normally,” He began as he sipped his tea and looked up at Sherlock expectantly, “you’d be a right menace to live with for a week.” This statement spoiled Sherlock’s plan of attack and defense entirely.

“Indeed. I decided it would be best to address the issue of her turning up at a crime scene without my invitation to be of utmost importance. Seeing as how she dropped _my_ name to get inside there’s no telling what she’s capable of now. Those idiots at the Yard—especially that young one—are bound to allow her access to anything so long as she goes as my _assistant_.” Sherlock attempted to sound blasé as he hung up his Belstaff and gloves. He strode over to his chair in the study and took a seat opposite the kitchen from John, before picking up a book and opening it to demonstrate the matter was closed.

“So she’s not going to do it again, hmm?” John chuckled and turned a page. It was clear John was enjoying himself a bit too much.

“I believe she will… _ask_ me if she can accompany us in the future before doing so on her own.” 

“ _Probably,”_ Sherlock muttered under his breath.

But John caught the ‘probably’ and looked back up; a huge grin plastered his face. “You didn’t talk about anything did you?”

Sherlock rallied for a defense but stopped himself short. Technically they _did_ talk about it. Samantha said she’d do it again and then they had sex. The idea that he’d acquiesced to Samantha’s determination or that he admired her skill or bravado could not be shared with John.

“She _was_ bloody brilliant though wasn’t she?” John shot out suddenly.

“God, yes. I was so proud.” _Damn_. He said that out loud. He groaned as John collapsed into his chair laughing.

“ _Vive le feminism_!” John declared, rubbing the tears that stained his crinkled eyes. Sherlock’s lip curled in disgust but then he began to laugh too. He and John were utterly hopeless. Mrs. Hudson said this would happen to him one day but he’d always dismissed her outright—citing his penchant for avoiding the opposite sex entirely as necessary to The Work. Mrs. Hudson was like a mother to him and John—she’d been their housekeeper for ages. Even though she constantly reminded her “boys” she was no such thing she continued to tidy up around the flat and bring them tea and biscuits on a regular basis. She was always trying to make him eat more and he made an effort for her sake when he wasn’t on a case. Her hip was getting worse and Samantha had been a boon to her…

In horror Sherlock realized Mrs. Hudson and Samantha might get on better than he’d anticipated and that their alliance might pose a problem. What if they made a joint effort to fatten him up? Or find John a significant other too? Mrs. Hudson hadn’t said much to him the last several weeks about Samantha. Just a knowing smile, a wink, or a pat on his cheek to express her approval and happiness for him when she brought them some mid-day tea. Obviously Samantha could be _very_ loud when she was over and John was out but Mrs. Hudson had the courtesy not to mention that to him. So far…But still…how long until Mrs. Hudson began a not-so-veiled attempt at persuading Samantha she should give him a baby? God in Heaven…the idea of marriage was one thing but fatherhood was another issue entirely.

Fortunately, he noted Samantha was taking contraceptive pills when he used her bathroom at her flat after their first date. Mycroft included information that was certainly pilfered from Samantha’s gynecologist’s office in the slew of other personal information his brother left in her file on his desk. The idea that Mycroft had gone to such lengths to ensure she was clean of any sexually transmitted diseases and taking contraceptives had disgusted him but he had been grateful—he really didn’t want to ask Samantha such questions. That Mycroft predicted Sherlock would want to ask her and couldn’t—or wouldn’t—broach the subject on his own was what had Sherlock seething with annoyance.

But that matter was neither here nor there. The issue at hand was how to limit Samantha’s exposure to the truly horrific things he and John dealt with a weekly basis. Samantha had proven herself capable of dealing with a plethora of vile experiments in his kitchen, but seeing a dismembered corpse he hadn’t had a hand in dismembering might prove to be more challenging than she realized. Unlike him, the human factor of emotion was likely to play a role in her emotional and mental well-being. He had been sure not to give her any details as to the histories of the cadavers he acquired in light of this circumstance.

The fact that she was a trauma survivor would almost certainly come into play in an investigation at some point. While her experience seemed to have allowed her to deal with Laura better than either he or John were capable yesterday there would be a time when it would trigger something horrible in her psyche. Sherlock winced at the notion and John registered his look of apprehension.

“We’ll watch her,” John said with an assuring nod. This gesture only slightly alleviated Sherlock’s anxiety. Another item of note in her file was that she had taken a counter-surveillance and self-defense course back in the states. He’d hoped that would allow her outwit any reporters that might be lurking about for a story, not ner-do-wells who might have a vendetta against him or John. If she was seen actively assisting them on a job it was only a matter of time before both would be crawling about Baker Street…Mycroft’s men tailing her for her own protection was one thing; it was for her own good and there was nothing he could do about that. But if others fell through the net…


	5. He Stole My Sister

Samantha practically skipped as she departed the tube station after her work at the lab and made her way to Sherlock’s flat. They had their “talk”— _she won_ —and all would be well. She was so lost in the reverie of assisting the two men on future cases that she didn’t notice the figure of a man following her straightaway. At first she wasn’t sure, but when she made a point to stop at a vendor’s food stand the man stopped and ducked into a shop across the street. She pretended she was absently enjoying her day and continued to take her time. Every time she paused to look at her phone or admire a window display the man would seemingly disappear. She shook herself and continued walking as the hair on her neck stood on end. She remembered what her therapist, Rosalie, had told her in the states. _If you think something’s wrong—it probably is. Listen to your instincts._

But what did this man want? Middle aged white male around 5’7” with medium build…She listed in her mind to keep her senses focused and avoid panic. Long khaki coat. Hat tilted over his eyes. She couldn’t tell what color they were, or the color of his hair. His gait was regular and he carried a black non-descript umbrella—not any different from the size of her own blue one. It was only sprinkling a little though, so she’d elected to retract hers—pretending to enjoy the feel of rain on her face.

This was aggravating. Not because she was particularly afraid. This was a busy street and eventually she’d arrive at the sanctuary of 221B where she knew she’d be safe. What was aggravating was that she couldn’t bring herself to call Sherlock or John to tell her of this predicament. If she did they’d certainly veto her presence at crime scenes in the future and, worse still, would probably insist on chaperoning her everywhere she went. Sherlock was possessive in a good, protective sort of way, but it could also be annoying. After all she’d lived in London for nearly a year and a half. She had seen her share of questionable characters and took precautions. Even though Angela had stayed quiet in her mind and they’d apparently reached some sort of agreement that made curfew unnecessary Samantha still did not venture out after 10pm. She felt for her pepper spray in her carryall, feeling a sense of security wash over her. At least it wasn’t a windy day, so discharging the device and having it blow into her face as well was unlikely. _This motherfucker_ , she hissed under her breath.

Samantha vaguely considered ducking into a darkened alley to confront the man with her weapon but decided better of it. She couldn’t alter her course or she’d arouse suspicion. And Sherlock would likely _not_ fuck her as punishment if she got herself hurt doing something so stupid. The sky grew dark as she arrived at 221B Baker Street and she hooked her umbrella onto the strap of her carryall while making an attempt to survey her surroundings for the potential assailant. But he was gone. _Good_ , she thought, _I’ll just ask Sherlock to come back to my place for some ‘alone time’ and no one will be the wiser_. Samantha reasoned the stalker was probably just a run of the mill sort with no interest in a woman with a destination on a busy street, and certainly wouldn’t follow her if she had a male escort after she left—if he bothered waiting at all. She took several deep breaths before she opened the door to go upstairs. Perhaps Sherlock wouldn’t notice…

But upon entering the flat Sherlock was on her in a minute, having crossed the room at Mach speed. _How the hell does he do that?_ She wondered and forced a smile. “Hi sweetie,” she chirped. “Sorry I’m a few minutes late. The tube was packed today.”

Sherlock’s face grew dark as he held hers between his palms. She could feel him taking her pulse under his fingers on her neck.

“Who was he?”

Damn. Guess the deep breathing hadn’t fixed her pupil dilation. She’d been found out but she wasn’t ready to let go of her dreams of crime fighting just yet. “A little early for you to get jealous isn’t it, Sherlock?” She tried to laugh and pushed past him to lay her carryall against the door.

“Samantha,” he growled a little and gripped her forearm. “Are you really going to make me do this?” Sensing that he had no choice he narrowed his eyes at her and continued. “Your pupils are dilated 50% more than usual and it is _not_ because you are happy to see me. Your corrugator muscles are strained around your eyes. Nice try on the deep breathing outside the flat, but your heart rate is not elevated because you are excited to see me either. It’s usually 98 beats per minute with me and now it is 125. Your hair and legs are wet, and yet I can see you had an umbrella with you that you _did_ use but decided to put away despite the weather. You wanted to see someone’s face, not the sky. You deposited your umbrella next to your pepper spray that you thumbed over—twice—I smelled the residue on your fingertips when you removed my hands from your face—another uncharacteristic action on your part. If the perpetrator had been female you would never reach for pepper spray and you are 15 minutes late, which leads me to believe you took your time getting here. You were not in the tube during those 15 minutes because you are wet. Shall I go _on_ , Samantha?” He was getting worked up. He did not like being lied to, but certainly not about this.

Samantha opened her mouth to defend herself but squeaked back a sniffle. Dammit, was she really going to _cry_? She was so angry. And when she got really angry she cried.

“You must think I’m really incapable don’t you?” She fired at Sherlock. She looked over at John, thin lipped and silent. He wasn't going to bail her out. This was her fight.

“Samantha—” Sherlock began with a step forward but she interrupted him.

“It’s not the first time some asshole’s followed me in London you know! It’s not like—” She sobbed and wiped ruefully at the hot tears streaming down her cheeks. She wasn’t angry with Sherlock, but the situation wasn’t fair. “It’s not like I didn’t know what to do!” She felt her muscles shivering under her clothes and cursed her traitorous body.

Sherlock’s face softened and he came over to hold her in his arms. She pushed him back at first then grudgingly accepted the embrace. She didn’t want to be a damsel in distress, but she did want to feel the security of his warmth. He patted her hair and kissed the top of her head until she felt the shaking recede to her heart.

“You did very well, _Ma chéri_ ,” Sherlock began as he lifted her face to his and offered a tentative smile. Samantha eyed him a little warily despite herself then laughed as the absurdity in thinking she’d be able to lie to this man dawned on her.

“I’m sorry Sherlock. I just thought…” Her words drifted away.

Sherlock chuckled, “that you wouldn’t be allowed to join me and John on a case again? God, I’m really worried you and Mrs. Hudson are going to get along a little too well and I can’t have that.” His eyes sparkled mischievously.

“What?” Samantha frowned, taken aback by this seemingly unrelated bit of concern.

Instead of answering her query Sherlock maneuvered her over to the sofa and sat down next to her. She really didn’t care for being treated like a client, but seeing as how Sherlock was sitting next to her and not in his chair she supposed it was acceptable enough. John made his way from the kitchen and sat in front of the desk so he could be privy to the conversation as well. His facial expression was serious but he managed an encouraging smile as he nodded for her to begin. With an exasperated sigh Samantha recounted everything that happened to her since she’d left work. She left no detail unmentioned. Sherlock could tell if she skirted anything anyway, and maybe he and John could make sense of the man’s identity—even though she was relatively sure he was a run of the mill creep. Perhaps John and Sherlock didn’t understand what it was like to be a single female in London and she could get Mrs. Hudson to weigh in on that issue and the two men would acquiesce. Then she realized with sudden clarity that most women probably didn’t have a semi-violent detective for a boyfriend who could actually track down a perpetrator for punishment. She almost felt sorry for the stalker.

“Well?” She asked when she finished. Sherlock stood up and began to pace and bit his thumbnail. He only did that when he was truly distressed. Really Samantha just wanted to ask John to leave so she could drag him back to his room to make him forget about the stalker. To make her forget about it too. With irritation she noted she hadn’t slept in his bed yet. It probably smelled amazing.

Sherlock caught her glance towards his door and his lip curled in an almost grin. She felt herself blushing.

John rolled his eyes. “Right then. I just remembered we are out of milk.” He made his way to the door and met Sherlock’s eyes, which had abruptly darkened again. Samantha hoped for John’s sake the stalker had already departed. It was obvious to her a milk run might take several turns through darkened alleys.  

Sherlock nodded to John as he left before turning back to Samantha. “So,” he began cheerily enough—the air of mischief returning to his eyes. “You wanted to see my bedroom?”


	6. This Quiet Siege

Samantha heard John return a couple hours later. Sherlock rose from the bed, planted a tender kiss on her lips, and threw on his robe. He smiled at her triumphantly before he closed the door—having up till then completely distracted her from the matter of the stalker. She stretched languidly as she took in the details of his bedroom, which were surprisingly unremarkable, as though perhaps he didn’t spend much time there. Really the kitchen and study summed up “everything Sherlock”. The black mamba, Alice, flicked her tongue out at Samantha from across the room. Well. Except for Alice.

After John left for his “milk run” Sherlock scooped her off the couch and tossed her over his shoulder. She giggled hysterically before being deposited gently on his bed. And completely forgot about taking an inventory of his bedroom as he kissed her passionately and stroked her cheeks with those long deliciously fingers of his.

Sherlock was unusually tender with her that afternoon. As though he thought he might frighten her otherwise. He paid extra attention to her eyes to measure her response to being touched. Which would have annoyed her if it hadn’t been so erotic to watch. Having a horny Sherlock tune all his senses into your arousal and satisfaction was not a bad problem to have she decided. Their lovemaking was slow and sensuous. He hummed over her neck and breasts and practiced a new technique, which she loved. He encased the circumference of each of her nipples with his mouth and pulled them upward with his lips, before blowing on them and watching them turn to hard little pebbles and flicking his tongue against the texture. Not exactly the invention of the wheel, but it seemed to Samantha he was making some number of calculations in his mind and that was, in effect, the technique itself. The level of concentration with which he performed this task made her laugh, before finally pulling his mouth to hers so she could taste his measuring tool for herself. God he was so soft and lithe. As they lay together afterwards she traced the many scars on his body with her tongue, reveling in the way he gasped and arched in pleasure. But just as things were going to get _really_ interesting she heard the door open and close, signaling John’s return.

Suddenly she gasped. Had Sherlock noticed—

“JESUS CHRIST SHERLOCK! PUT ON SOME PANTS!” came John’s horrified wail from the study, followed by Sherlock’s gloating explanation about how an erection was a completely natural phenomenon given what he’d just been doing.

Poor Saint John. He’d really tried to avoid this scenario. Although, Samantha sometimes wondered if John didn’t have the tiniest crush on his flat mate too. That was acceptable though. How could anyone _not_ love Sherlock once they got to know him?

Sherlock popped back into the bedroom and Samantha covered her mouth to stop herself from cackling at his expression—which bordered on evil. Neatly he tucked himself into some boxers and slacks before exiting again. Samantha wanted to join in the conversation but held out hope it wouldn’t be too long before Sherlock returned and they could continue where they’d left off. Still, she strained to hear the two men’s conversation, which had become subdued and secretive.

“What do you mean you couldn’t find him?” Sherlock hissed at John as he began to pace, his bare feet making a frantic cadence on the hardwood flooring.

“Would you rather have gone instead?” John snorted in irritation. “God knows you wouldn’t have left her here alone.” His tone softened and added, “I looked everywhere and there was no one matching the description she gave. She was probably right about him just being a pervert who lost interest. She _is_ a beautiful woman so she probably does attract them on occasion.”

 _Bless you John_. Maybe she didn’t have to enlist Mrs. Hudson after all.

Sherlock stopped pacing and Samantha knew he was glaring at John. Just when she thought she’d have to get dressed to join in his defense herself Sherlock mumbled something under his breath.

“We have to get her out of here, John. You know the kind of people we deal with.”

“I know that, Sherlock. _She_ knows that. Better than you give her credit for.”

The pacing resumed. “I’ll take that case then. The one with the bloody dog out in Dartmoor.”

John laughed. “ _You_ said that was some ridiculous fabrication to frighten the heir to the estate into selling it and bring in tourists. Samantha’s not going to believe you’re taking her seriously.”

 _Damn right_ , Samantha chimed to herself in agreement. The case in question had to do with allegations made by a Dr. James Mortimer that his friend, Sir Charles Baskerville, had been viciously attacked and killed by a giant _phantom_ dog on his estate. Dr. Mortimer maintained that the body did not resemble that of a regular animal attack and cited a series of larger than average paw prints around the scene as evidence. Before he could say any more, Sherlock dismissed the man, even going so far as to suggest he see a shrink.

“Well _convince_ her then!” Sherlock sounded frantic now and Samantha pitied him. A holiday in the countryside with Sherlock did sound _terribly_ appealing. A romantic bed and breakfast, spending hours making love, and exploring the countryside...Yes. She would definitely have to take the bait on this one.


	7. I Did Not Ask For This

Samantha told the lab she’d come down with the flu the next day, feeling only the tiniest bit of guilt. Sherlock looked thoroughly disheveled when he proposed the idea of working the Baskerville case with him that morning. He obviously felt silly to suggest it and his eyes darted everywhere but towards hers.

“Well, I _was_ thinking it was possible,” she supposed in her most convincing tone. “95% of world's population is concentrated on just 10% of world's land surface you know.”

Sherlock flinched then met her eyes hopefully. Obviously he wasn’t going to correct her with his goal in mind.

Samantha smiled and wondered if she shouldn’t be absolutely wicked and pretend she was actually into cryptozoology, just to see how far she could push him. But that didn’t fall in line with her goal either—to see Sherlock naked in a bed and breakfast a few hours away, possibly eating the local cheese off his belly.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly instead. “It means a lot to me to be able to go with you and help.” This was honestly true. It _did_ mean a lot to her that Sherlock was willing to suffer a case he considered beneath him simply to get her out of London for a few days. He eyed her a little warily before he loaded her luggage into rental car.

John came around the corner and winked at her knowingly. _Bless you_ , Samantha thought. Then with her eyes she sent a warning, _John Watson don’t you dare spoil this for me!_ John chortled and scooted into the driver’s seat with another wink. Good. They had an understanding then. While Samantha wished John didn’t have to join them, it wouldn’t make sense for him not to given that they were all supposedly going to work a case. _He’d better get a separate room though_ , Samantha growled in her mind as she slid into the back of the car. Sherlock looked temporarily confused by the seating arrangement, blushed, and hopped up into the passenger seat. He reached back to squeeze her knee until she squeaked. John rolled his eyes and started the engine. This was going to be a long trip for him. Samantha decided she’d need to get John some sort of thank you gift for playing along. His patience with Sherlock seemed infinite but working an imaginary case while chaperoning a very real romantic getaway he would not be participating in seemed unfair. Worried, she looked up and saw the crinkle of a smile in his eyes in the rear view mirror and sighed in relief. John knew exactly what he was getting into then.


	8. One's Past Is Not A Destination

“415 million years of geologic history,” Samantha whispered softly as she marveled at the jutting rocks near the road on their way to Devon. The way she pressed both her hands against the window was infinitely pure and enchanting to Sherlock. “Did you know,” she tapped his shoulder to be sure he was listening. “That there is an _entire_ interval of geologic time that is named after this place? The Devonian Period?” Her eyes widened and she pressed her nose to the glass, causing Sherlock to nearly burst with laughter.

“No, Samantha I did not know that.” He managed with a grin. She looked at him as though he really did live a sad and simple life before returning to her reverie.

“It’s _world_ recognized, Sherlock…LOOK!!” She gripped Sherlock’s arm and gestured intensely. “The granite outcrops! We must almost be to Dartmoor! Did you know…” But then she realized Sherlock was admiring her and blushed furiously. “I’m sorry, I forget that I get like this.”

“Please continue,” Sherlock laughed. “I don’t know any of these things and it’s nice to be on the receiving end of an education.” Samantha looked at him doubtfully, and John tried to keep a straight face. “What?” Sherlock asked defensively, then added, “Just because it’s not for a case doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.”

John snickered before turning his gaze back to the road and Samantha beamed. “Alright,” she continued. “How about _this_ then? _These_ rocks are slightly radioactive and produce radon gas. Which means some of the homes around here may register an excess of over 200 Becquerels.”    

Well, now that _was_ interesting. This was a whole new side of Samantha he hadn’t anticipated.

“So no basement rooms at the inn ok?” She grinned, pleased with his interest.

“Understood _Professeur de Madame_ ,” Sherlock answered playfully.

The inn at Devonshire was small and uninteresting but left Samantha breathless. She danced around the car taking pictures of the countryside like a complete tourist. He supposed this was as ideal location as any for them to carry on this ridiculous investigation. Dr. Mortimer was delusional at best, but a conniving swindler at worst. It was clear he wanted Sir Charles’ son Henry to leave the estate—which Mortimer offered to manage in his absence—until the phantom dog could be located or the curse lifted. Which was impossible. Sherlock rolled his eyes. A curse in this day and age…

John came over and nudged Sherlock in the ribs. “You’d better look more convincing than that if you don’t want Samantha to catch on, Sherlock.” It was already dusk and Sherlock wasn’t eager to traverse the hills in search of a canine’s ghost when he could be snuggling in bed with a different beast altogether.

Suddenly they heard Samantha scream. He and John made a frantic sweep around the car before another scream came from around the path behind the inn. This one did not come from Samantha.

Rounding the corner Sherlock was shocked to see Samantha brutally kicking a man in the stomach. A werewolf mask lay several feet away and the man was howling on his side in pain. Evidently he’d chosen the wrong pretty girl to frighten.

“Stupid. Mother. Fucker.” Samantha enunciated each word with a kick to the man’s abdomen. Sherlock remembered being in a similar position not that long ago, when it she wore the mask of Angela, straddling him and unleashing her fury on his jaw. “Oh!” Samantha perked up when she saw him standing there. “Hi sweetie.” God she was beautiful.

John looked less than amused seeing Samantha assaulting a local in a back alley and went to the man’s assistance. “He’s fine really,” Samantha breathed. “I only kicked him at 50% power to teach him a lesson.” She winked at Sherlock. She was such a beautiful nerd. “He only scared me because he grabbed me from behind. Not…you know…because of the mask.” She blushed a little and wiped a bead of sweat from her hairline.

“Did he now?” Sherlock stepped forward, fully intending to kick the fellow at _much_ more than 50% power but John stopped him with his hand.

“Children please.” John began, “perhaps you two should go inside and get our rooms. I sense there could be some…frustration that needs working out.”

Samantha tittered and grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “Let’s go inside! I want to see if it’s like a real hillside pub from the movies!” _What could possibly be interesting about that_ , Sherlock wondered.

As it turned out, a number of things. For a town built on tourism the locals didn’t look too pleased to see him and Samantha, who was too enthralled by the raging fire at the hearth and rustic surroundings to have noticed they were unwelcome travelers. But then Samantha bopped— _yes bopped_ —over to the bar and asked for two rooms for the night. The innkeeper reminded Sherlock of an irritable Ernest Hemingway and turned away from the bar to observe the rest of the tavern’s occupants. Most seemed harmless enough, with the exception of one or two obvious miscreants—probably friends of the young man Samantha pummeled in the alley only moments ago. When Sherlock turned back to the bar however the previously grumpy barman was cackling and handing Samantha a set of keys. Samantha giggled and kissed the old man on his cheek, engendering a wink directed at Sherlock. With that action alone the room relaxed into a stream of lively chatter from its inhabitants.

Samantha tugged on his arm, directing him to the stairs and Sherlock frowned in bewilderment as the man inclined his head over the side of the bar and gave him a thumb up in salute.

“What—whatever did you say to that man?” Sherlock was feeling a little panicked by the spell Samantha cast on their inhospitable surroundings.

“Oh,” She giggled, “I told him we were newlyweds.”

“That’s it?” Sherlock was incredulous.

“Yup,” she grinned and pulled him towards her enticingly. “I told him that we were newlyweds and that we were going to make a _lot_ of noise and needed a _lot_ of food and wine.”

“Did you?” He liked where this was going. “And what sort of food and wine?”

“Only the best, darling!” Samantha made a little pout and gasped as he nibbled on her chin. “I’ve been thinking of eating cheese off those abs of yours for hours.”

 _Oh my._ Sherlock wasn’t sure what he’d created but he wanted to play a little more. “I thought you were only thinking about radioactive rocks.” He gripped her bum as she turned the key in its lock.

“Well yes, I was thinking about that. But only because the other thing would have warranted a stop over. Two hours thinking of other hard things might have caused cerebral damage.”

“And here I thought we were here to work a case…” Sherlock shut the door and pulled her to his chest.

“We are though!” Samantha pretended to struggle against his embrace. But she was very pleased with herself as she bit the corner of his cheek and murmured. “I may have also mentioned we were amateur cryptozoologists here to prove the existence of a certain hound from hell. Hence why we brought a man to carry our equipment.”

Sherlock laughed, he _really_ laughed. “You told him John was our _footman_?” The idea of John functioning as their servant seemed unimaginably funny—even if it did explain their third wheel rather impressively.

“Well, it occurred to me these people might not trust us if we didn’t come across as approachable. Didn’t you feel the tension in the room when we came in?” Samantha looked a little wounded he might not approve.

So she _had_ noticed. “ _Ma chéri_ , you are… _brilliant_.” He planted a tender kiss on her lips. Her breath caught and she leaned into it with a little moan. “Mmmm…hold that thought. I must tell our footman to bring our luggage upstairs and deliver his key. We can’t have the neighbors saying we don’t treat him well.”

Samantha grinned as she pulled away and allowed him to depart. As he closed the door he saw her strike a seductive pose on the bed and he increased his pace down the stairs proportionately.

“So, I’m your luggage man now am I?” John looked somewhat irritable but mostly amused. “Alright, well I suppose that does explain my presence on your honeymoon. She’s American so it’s believable enough she’d be a cryptozoologist. But _you_ ,” John poked Sherlock in the chest. “Better behave. No snide remarks about the lack of evidence or berating the locals for their beliefs. And,” John added emphatically, “Be careful with her.”

“What?” Sherlock asked in confusion.

“She’s my only daughter Sherlock,” John did his best impression of a southern gentleman from the states and winked. It wasn’t a very good impression but Sherlock laughed helplessly nonetheless as he hurried back inside the inn, thinking he was about to take very, _very_ good care of her indeed.


	9. Your Supernova Juice

“So tell me more about this Hound from Hell, Detective,” Samantha popped a grape in between her teeth and ran it around the circumference and apex of one of Sherlock’s nipples. _That has got to be one of the most erotic uses for the grape yet,_ he marveled. Samantha was completely naked and wiggled her arse in the air like a feline waiting to strike its prey. She bit into the grape, and juices fell onto his hardening nipple, before she turned her attention to the Brie she’d stationed on his abdominal muscles.

“Well— _ah!_ —it’s obvious Dr. Mortimer is trying to frighten Sir Henry into leaving his estate so he can take over his acquisitions and— _ah_ —your teeth are tickling me, Samantha.” Sherlock had promised he would keep his arms behind his head until she was finished “eating” but it was becoming increasingly difficult to control himself after discovering his role as a buffet was such a major turn on for him.

“Mmmmm…Sorry,” Samantha said very unapologetically as she licked the Brie from her lips and used the middle of her tongue to lave its remnants from his belly. “You were saying?” She prompted as she laid another wedge of cheese between his pectoral muscles.

“It’s obvious that Dr. Mortimer murdered his friend Sir Charles and tried to make it look like this ghost hound did it.” _Dear God, woman, how much more do you expect me to do…_

“Hmmm…but what about all the sightings people have had of a gigantic dog roaming about the moors and attacking people?” She appeared pensive enough but definitely intended to drag out her meal much longer than necessary. Registering his duress she popped another grape in her mouth and pushed it into his with her tongue. She grinned. “It can’t all be made up now can it detective? Otherwise _why_ would you have brought me here?”

Sherlock struggled to maintain composure and swallowed the fruit. Surely the Geneva Convention would have banned this form of torture.

“There _isn’t_ any hound. You are here to help me— _ahhhh_ —prove it.” Sherlock felt Samantha’s fingernails dig into the slacks he’d been ordered to keep on while she enjoyed her dinner. She unbuckled his belt and unzipped the pants, stopping before pulling them down.

“Sure you aren’t hungry, Sherlock?” She purred as she tugged on the elastic of his boxers with her teeth.

“No. God. For the fifth time I’m not hungry!” He was panting, desperate for this interrogation to end.

Samantha stuck out her lower lip in a pout. “But I am.” Deftly she pulled his boxers down and released his engorged member from its constraints. Sherlock moaned with relief and then hissed in shock as he felt her tongue slide up the expanse of his shaft and down the other side.

“Samantha—” Sherlock moved his arms to touch her.

“You promised!” Samantha cried pitifully and he laid back in surrender. This was how he was going to die. Still, better than other ways he’d imagined.

Samantha calmed and turned her attention back to his aching cock. _Dear God, she’s cataloging this isn’t she?_ Sherlock thought as he watched her examine everything—his texture, his taste, even the veins that pulsed under the tender flesh. _She was studying him._ She buried her face in the soft curls of his pubic hair and inhaled deeply, cruelly digging her nails into his thighs. He groaned and arched his back despite his best efforts to remain still. She was so mesmerizing, his Samantha. She fondled his bollocks and studied his reaction. He nodded to let her know that was indeed welcome and she seemed pleased. She trailed one of her nipples over his slit and “ohhhed” at the thread of pre-come that coated it before jumping back down and measuring his cock with her eyes, looking very much like a cat that wanted to bat at a toy. She wiggled her hips again before licking the tip of his crown in a circular motion and sucking the head like a lollipop. With a sudden look of determination she proceeded to insert the whole of his shaft down to the hilt, before she started to gag. Well, he _was_ well endowed and she was completely inexperienced.

“Samantha, you don’t have to—” He began to console her, forgetting that his Samantha was a problem solver by nature. She reached between her legs and palmed herself, coating her fingers in her own arousal before neatly wrapping those same tiny fingers around the base of his throbbing erection and coating his shaft. Sherlock gaped as she did this, thinking this was possibly the most obscene thing he’d ever witnessed, but thoroughly enjoying a demonstration of her abilities. Wrapping her wet hand around his cock she squeezed it into a fist and tried to take him into her mouth again. Sherlock positively wailed as he felt her compress the tip of his cock and saw the sticky saliva dripping out of the corners of her mouth onto his pubic hair and bollocks, which she used her other hand to fondle gently. Desperately he held himself back from bucking his hips. Her mouth had become hot and sticky with the increasing friction and she seemed to know just how to pull on his prick with her delicate fingers. “Oh God, Samantha, _très bon_ …that’s so good…don’t stop…” He huffed and jerked his body as he gripped his hair in an effort to do as he was told.

“Mmmmm,” She hummed then pulled away suddenly, her eyebrows knitted together hopefully. “Sherlock, let me taste you. Want to feel you come in my mouth.” She had the most exquisite expression on her face. This was yet another way in which she was losing her virginity to him.

He nodded hazily and she allowed him to hold her hair away from her face so he could see her eyes as she sucked him off. She was so beautiful—her cheeks hollowed and flushed and her lips smeared with his essence.

Having received his blessing she became even more visibly excited. She released his balls and began to finger herself wildly, using his thigh for leverage as she pumped his cock into her mouth with her other hand, keening in desperation. The scene he beheld was far too lewd for Sherlock to absorb completely and he cried out—gripping her hair more than he’d intended as she released her hand and took all of him down to his root again. Her muffled groan of pleasure was unmistakable as he released his seed down her throat in hot, shooting spurts. Sherlock was left winded and wondering if he’d ever seen something so amazing or ever would again. She pulled back and wiped a smear of come off her lips with the back of her hand before licking it off. Sherlock was speechless as she straddled him again, leaning forward to caress his cheek.

“I did good then?” She wasn’t kidding—she really was self-conscious about her performance despite his obvious enjoyment of the experience.

“Oh. My God, Samantha. My Love, yes, yes, you did wonderfully.”

Before she could protest he pulled her to him and kissed her ardently on the lips, which he then parted with his tongue. Tasting himself in her mouth was actually quite nice, though he was reasonably certain this would be frowned upon in many circles. Not that he gave a damn. He laid Samantha on her back and cradled her to him, kissing her forehead, nose, and mouth before moving on to her neck and the tender bit of skin behind her ear that drove her mad with want. Despite just having come his cock hardened as soon as she gasped and arched her back in response to his teeth on her neck. Normally his refractory period was limited to only half an hour, but he was determined to satisfy her with his prick.

 _“Vous allez me tuer”_ He murmured against her breastbone, thinking she might actually kill him if one could die from happiness or pleasure.

Samantha groaned as he parted her legs and slipped inside her. She was so worn out, so weak from all that exertion she could only hold his face with her hands. “Sherlock…” She whimpered into his mouth and he thumbed her clitoris in tiny circles as he thrust into her core. Once, then twice, before she arched her back and he felt the cascade of her release over his throbbing cock. As Samantha shook and twitched in his arms, he grinned with the knowledge he had not been the only one suffering through dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Vous allez me tuer."  
> -You are going to kill me.


	10. Lately I’m Into Circuitry

Baskerville Hall was truly amazing. Samantha found it very hard not to grab Sherlock’s hand and point to every statue or wall tapestry, but she was determined to be professional and most importantly, mature today. Especially in the presence of a client who had put so much faith in their assistance. Even if it was to capture and dispatch an apparition. Samantha had told the locals in the little town with the inn she was there to prove the existence of the Hound, but as far as Sir Henry was concerned they were there to find the identity of his father’s murderer. Or remove a curse. Sir Henry was so discombobulated by their arrival at his estate he hadn’t made much sense. Clearly he was distraught and his symptoms bordered on a psychotic break with reality. Samantha felt sorry for him, remembering her own breaks with reality that had been so confusing and frightening until she’d found an answer in the form of her disorder. This man did not appear to have the “luxury” of any disorder, and presented symptoms of a man who was sleep deprived and overcome with terror that he would be the next to die.

“And what makes you believe in this curse Sir Henry?” Sherlock questioned in a tone that mostly masked his disdain for Henry’s fervent belief in such a thing.

“Well it’s…it’s an old story in my family,” he began and looked at Samantha, who returned an encouraging and patient smile. John nodded for him to continue as he took notes on the loveseat opposite them. Samantha made sure she was sitting next to Henry so he might be more comforted by her presence, and not put off by Sherlock’s scrutiny. Sherlock elected to stand, presumably so he could pace. “My ancestor, Hugo Baskerville, made a deal with the devil…in exchange,” he made a hesitant apologetic smile at Samantha before continuing, “for the abduction of a woman.”

“Yes, yes, I understood that part. Local superstition.” Sherlock dismissed him, waving his hand irritably.

Samantha glowered at her boyfriend. “Please continue, Sir Henry.”

Sensing her interest, Henry sighed, “Well, he was killed by a gigantic hound.”

“And because your father was killed by a large dog or wolf you believe it’s a curse? Ridiculous.” Sherlock was losing patience.

“But it’s true!” Henry’s voice wavered in a desperate plea. “I’ve heard it! I’ve heard it on the moors at night howling and carrying on! Everyone’s heard it!”

Samantha reached out her hand to squeeze his sympathetically. “Henry,” she began tentatively, “Perhaps there _is_ a dog…or a wolf…out there that’s making those noises. If it attacked your father it will…have to be put down. But…what makes you think it’s after you in particular?” She hoped she was asking the right question and her inquiry wouldn’t send him into shock.

But Henry seemed to sense she might believe him. “It’s taken my boots. It wants me.” He fought back a sob. “It hasn’t done that with anyone else!”

Sherlock spun and Samantha knew he was about to point out that a pair of missing shoes was hardly proof that a cursed dog was out to get Henry. Samantha widened her eyes and barely shook her head to indicate this was not the way to go, and surprisingly he listened. “Henry…may I call you Henry?” Samantha realized she might have forgotten her place, but Henry nodded with relief and she smiled. “If these gentleman here,” she motioned to Sherlock and John, “can locate this animal and destroy it, will you feel safe enough to remain here? Would you _want_ to stay here?”

Henry nodded dumbly and squeezed her hand in return. “You believe me? You don’t think I’m mad?”

“No,” she said truthfully. “I don’t. I’ve seen my share of things I couldn’t explain. But eventually I was able to explain them and it was ok. Let us try…please.”

Henry collapsed his face on her hands appreciatively, his eyes wet with tears. He was so pitifully frightened. Even if Sherlock and John were not there Samantha decided she would do anything to alleviate this man’s misery.

Then it was settled. All they had to do was locate or disprove the existence of a killer beast.

“So you believe him then?” Sherlock asked her tentatively as they exited the manor.

“I believe that he believes there is something out there waiting to kill him. What I believe isn’t important.” Samantha sighed and smiled at him. “What is important is that we show we support him. Thank you,” she added shyly, “Thank you for not pushing him and letting me help like that. You were very sweet.”

Sherlock stuck his nose in the air a bit. “Well, you seemed to know what you were doing. You persuaded him to answer the right questions. I could have done that but…he trusts you now.”

“He trusts _us_ now,” Samantha corrected with a little grin.

“So onto the moors to hunt for a mythical beast then?” John asked with a wink in Samantha’s direction. Sherlock groaned.

“Yep!” Samantha squeezed Sherlock’s arm. “I though you’d never ask.”


	11. Alpha In Her Blood

“Try not to look so grumpy, Sherlock,” Samantha chided before she skipped ahead of him and John. She was fully invested in exploring the forest surrounding the estate. And seemingly unafraid of any wild dogs.

“She’s right you know,” John agreed, ribbing Sherlock. “This is a holiday…of sorts. I could probably do some questioning of the locals if you, you know, wanted some ‘alone time’ with your pioneer there.” John grinned wickedly.

“Would that you could,” Sherlock grumbled. “This is a waste of time, but she’s seems intent on working the case. And it will look suspicious if you are absent from it.”

“Oh, I think she’d be amenable to the idea.” John looked around and thumbed his lower lip. “Nothing says romance like hunting a killer animal in the woods. Well, for Samantha anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock began but realized the woman in question had wandered out of his field of vision. If there _was_ a rabid dog wandering the hills…“Samantha!” He called out, “Samantha don’t go too far!”

“I’m ok!” Samantha called back reassuringly, and then gasped.

Sherlock and John broke into a run. As they made their way over a hill they found Samantha hunched over a clearing of leaves, surrounded by large boulders.

“Look!” She said wonderingly, gesturing to her feet. “Paw prints…” Sherlock and John skidded down to join her. God she was fast. Of course she would be. She had spent many years of her childhood exploring woods such as this, so her footing was probably sound.

“Are they real?” She asked as Sherlock traced the outline on a _very_ large set of prints by her feet. John bent down and examined another one.

“…Yes. They do appear to be real.” He mumbled warily.

“That must be one heavy ghost to leave prints like that.” Samantha grinned, obviously proud of her discovery, then asked sadly, “Will…will it really have to be destroyed?”

“I’m sorry, _Mon Coeur_ , if it has killed a human being we have no choice.” Sherlock was touched by her compassion, but wanted to end this case as quickly as possible. Two days away from London should have been enough to rid them of her stalker. Or make him desperate enough to get careless and provide Sherlock with an opportunity to interrogate him at leisure.

“It’s getting dark now,” John observed, squinting up at the sky. “If we’re going to be doing any hunting I suggest we begin again in the morning.” He winked. “I’m sure that’s not a problem, is it, Sherlock?”

Samantha looked at him hopefully. Another night together wasn’t a terrible idea. He sighed. “Alright. Tomorrow we will hunt. Tonight we will dine on the local cuisine—whatever _that_ has to offer,” he added with a note of sarcasm.


	12. Till Her Voices Are Remembered

Not surprisingly, the inn was full to capacity and bustling with activity upon their return. Numerous people eyed Sherlock suspiciously before touching Samantha’s arm and asking her to sit with them to regale her with tales of the Great Hound of Hell stalking their woods. Samantha seemed enthusiastic enough, glancing at him to let him know she’d be busy and to be sure he was paying attention. She still didn’t seem to grasp he was _always_ paying attention—even when he didn’t want to be. It was interesting to watch her play the role of an inexperienced cryptozoologist however. The way she charmed people with her laugh and her ability to listen to even the most drole of anecdotes was impressive. This gave him an opportunity to measure her audience’s body language without interruption. He ordered some brandy and relaxed into a chair next to John, who was just as intent as he at reading the room.

“We’ve all seen it,” an old woman said as she squeezed Samantha’s arm with fervor. “The monster’s always skulkin’ about near the hollow…”

“Big as a horse!” an older man added confidently.

Samantha made a little “Ohhh” sound to signal her interest. “Where in the hollow? Can you tell me? I found some paw prints in the forest! They were huge!”

Sherlock winced. She’d just been inducted into this odd tribe of nitwits.

“Ohhh, then you know! You must be careful dearie,” the old woman chastised her, shaking her finger in warning. “Those woods are not safe at night. Best be takin’ yer fellas there with you even during the day.”

Samantha opened her mouth to assure the woman but was interrupted by Dr. Mortimer. Sherlock gritted his teeth.

“Yes, you should be careful Miss…?” Dr. Mortimer asked in a menacing sneer.

“Jones.” Samantha answered with her most winning smile, clearly not intimidated. She _should_ have been though. Dr. Mortimer had the most to lose if they were able to capture and destroy the beast.

“Miss Jones? A pleasure.” Mortimer extended his hand in greeting and Samantha took it without any visible trepidation to him. Sherlock noted how the muscles in her face and body tensed and made a move to rescue her from his attentions. John made a small grunt to indicate Sherlock should remain seated. “I hear you are an amateur cryptozoologist. It’s good _someone_ here had the decency to investigate this matter, since the good detective and his friend didn’t see it fit to bother.” He motioned to Sherlock and John.

Sherlock issued a sly smile. “It’s in my nature to humor Miss Jones. It seems we were due for a holiday and she suggested we come out to study this _creature_.” He made sure to allow Mortimer to feel the effects of the derision in his voice.

Mortimer snorted with disgust. “At least Miss Jones here, or is it Mrs. Holmes now? Has the wherewithal to know when an investigation is warranted.”

Samantha blushed. “Sorry, we were…just married. I forgot when you introduced yourself and ‘Miss Jones’ is Sherlock’s pet name for me.” She laughed a little nervously and her eyes flitted in Sherlock’s direction helplessly. “It’s probably a silly destination for a honeymoon…but I didn’t think Sherlock would enjoy himself if he wasn’t on a case of some sort,” she recovered nicely.

“Is that so?” Mortimer gave her a seemingly genuine smile and seated himself at her table. “It must be very difficult for you, being married to such a man.”

“Not at all!” Samantha sniffed a little haughtily then grinned wickedly. “He is _very_ talented.” This caused the other table’s occupants to roar with laughter—with the exception of Mortimer, who only smiled wanly in response. John stifled a snicker, but Sherlock refused to acknowledge this contribution.

“Dr. Mortimer,” Samantha ventured, exchanging her air of frivolity for one of seriousness. “I sincerely apologize if my husband has offended you. He can be…mercurial at times. I assure you he is dedicated to assisting your friend Sir Henry in every way possible.”

Mortimer’s expression visibly relaxed. “Is that so…then, I thank you. It has been so difficult for Henry. He’s been terribly traumatized by his father’s _gruesome_ death.”

“Yes. I would imagine so.” Samantha said softly and looked at her hands. “Do you _really_ believe in the curse, Dr. Mortimer?” She raised her eyes to her prey just a little too defiantly for Sherlock’s comfort.

“Oh that,” Mortimer was only slightly taken by surprise by continued gamely, “well, as you know I am an educated man. But…the evidence seems to speak for itself. Wouldn’t you agree Mrs. Holmes?”

Samantha remained brave. “It’s just that I would really like to help Henry. It’s very sad not to feel safe in your own home.” Sherlock knew she was speaking from personal experience and her expression pained him. “Isn’t there any way to…lift this curse? For Henry’s sake?”

Suddenly the room grew quiet and everyone turned their attention to Dr. Mortimer. “There is,” he began darkly, “but no one will do such a thing.”

“The legend is that the beast has to have the soul of a woman instead,” whispered the old lady into Samantha’s ear. Samantha looked visibly shaken. She had not counted on the barbarity of countryside superstitions to come into play. “That’s why Sir Henry still hasn’t taken a wife,” the old woman nodded sadly. “That poor boy. His mother was so frightened by the beast she left Sir Charles. But Sir Charles wouldn’t leave. He was determined to find the hound and kill it.”

This seemed to cause Samantha even more pain. Sir Henry wasn’t only trapped in his own house; he was destined to be trapped in it alone. Tears began to dot her eyelashes. She was so blessedly sensitive to the pain of others. Unlike himself, Sherlock noted wryly.

“I think that’s quite enough, Dr. Mortimer,” Sherlock stood and approached the table, glaring at him. “Samantha, my love, I think it’s time we retired for the evening. Tomorrow we shall go to the moors and find this damned thing and destroy it.” The occupants of the tavern were plainly shocked by the certainty of Sherlock’s proclamation. Had they really never attempted such an obvious solution to their problems? Samantha winced. She still hadn’t come to terms with the idea the creature had to be destroyed even though she’d assured Sir Henry of the necessity.

She nodded and rose from the table feebly. “Thank you for talking to me about this. It’s been very…enlightening.” Samantha forced a smile at the old couple and squeezed the old woman’s hand. “I promise I’ll be careful,” she added knowingly and the old woman squeezed her hand warmly in return.


	13. A Slight Miscalculation

For once Samantha listened to Sherlock, who _suggested_ she remain at the inn while he and John went in search of the canine in question. She was so shaken from her conversation with the old couple and Dr. Mortimer the night before that she’d snuggled against the crook of his neck and fought back tears after they laid in bed. Sherlock was more than a bit irritated the incident had stolen an opportunity for him and his “new wife” to engage in more romantic activities. The local’s adherence to an outdated superstition of human sacrifice hadn’t bothered him in the slightest, other than it being absurdly annoying. But it clearly hurt Samantha, and he held her shaking form in his arms until she stilled and fell asleep. He was surprised to find this was nice too.

Sherlock hoped while he and John were out hunting she would find some local shops to visit and that would cheer her up enough to pull out of her despair. If not, he was determined to make quick work of this case and do something amazing—something that was suitably embarrassing in all likelihood—to charm her into laughing again. Perhaps a visit to a geologic museum would suffice…

But it was not quick work. He and John hunted for hours in the forest to no avail. John was an excellent tracker but the paw prints were no longer visible in the noxious mists emanating from the crags and they had to retreat to higher ground. At least one mystery was solved.

“Sulphur dioxide,” Sherlock commented in disgust as he and John covered their mouths and backed away. “And possibly carbon monoxide gas. People aren’t seeing a ghost—they’re hallucinating.”

“Ta,” John agreed. “Samantha said there was an abandoned mine in the area.”

Sherlock very much wanted to ask her more about that. He vaguely remembered her lecture about the nature of the radioactive rocks surrounding Devon and hoped they weren’t also being exposed to radon gas as well. It was getting dark.

“Shall we go back to the inn?” Sherlock suggested to John, hoping perhaps he could interrogate Samantha about the issue with her as the buffet this time.

John grinned knowingly and winked. “Why not? I could use something to eat too.” Sherlock could see why Samantha had taken to calling him Saint John.

The two men entered the inn and the frantic whispers of the occupants increased exponentially. Sherlock looked around for Samantha and saw the old couple sitting in a corner, seemingly unable to meet his eyes.

“Good evening,” he began. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my wife?”

The old woman’s face looked stricken and she glanced at her husband imploring him to answer. He nodded and bravely met Sherlock’s gaze.

“She’s gone, Mr. Holmes.”

The man said it simply enough, but the finality of the comment shot a wave of alarm through Sherlock. “What do you mean _‘she’s gone’_?” he growled, struggling to maintain his composure. “Elaborate. _Now_.”

The man’s wife reached out to squeeze her husband’s arm and replied softly. “She was here just a while ago having tea with old Barrymore. He’s worked for Sir Henry for ages and she was asking him all sorts of questions. They seemed to be getting on well enough, but then suddenly she stood up and walked out of the inn. I thought maybe she’d just stepped out for some fresh air. It does get quite smoky in here sometimes,” She shot a frown at her husband, who’d already lit his pipe.

“Yes, yes, this man is already dying from lung cancer but where did she go after that?” Samantha had not been wrong about the radon gas in the area being a problem. Sherlock could tell by the pallor of this gentleman’s skin tone and jagged shape of the man’s nails along with the wood shavings on his thighs he spent a lot of time in their basement—probably wood carving and smoking his pipe.

“How did you know…?” the man dropped his pipe in distress as his wife came completely unglued, shrieking at her husband to explain himself.

“You’ve got a smokers cough and…I just assumed,” Sherlock wasn’t going to go into details now. He had to find Samantha. “Never mind, just TELL ME. WHERE. SHE. WENT.” He managed through gritted teeth. He felt John tugging on his arm. “WHAT. JOHN?”

“A guy outside the inn said he saw her wandering off into the hillside.” John winced as he presented Sherlock with a pair of shoes. _Samantha’s shoes._ They were muddy and wet, but undamaged.

“Why didn’t he _STOP_ her then? Surely it isn’t customary for people to go wandering off without their shoes here is it?” Sherlock’s heart was pounding and he was becoming unglued himself.

“The man said he called to her, but when she heard him she began running. He said he couldn’t keep up, that she just disappeared…” John looked panicked himself.

“One last question and you’d better make it fast.” Sherlock ordered the old man, whose wife was screaming obscenities he was sure the local populace wasn’t accustomed to. “Where is this Barrymore fellow now?”

“I…don’t know…he finished his tea and left…” the old man stumbled dumbly, and gestured helplessly to his wife, who appeared to be making her way over to the fireplace to retrieve a poker.

“Right then.” Sherlock spun on his heel. “What direction?” he prompted John, who pointed north. The sun had already set but he could see the outline of trees in the distance. She was somewhere out there. Alone. Unarmed. With the dog. And most definitely drugged.


	14. And They Said Marianne Killed Herself

Sherlock and John were not alone in the forest. Not surprisingly none of the villagers had offered to join them in their search. “Bloody cowards,” Sherlock cursed for the tenth time. “It’s just a damned dog.” The leaves and bushes continued to rustle as though something were stalking them. Hunting them.

“Ta, but they all think it’s a ghost,” John huffed as they made their way down yet another ravine looking for her footprints. “SAMANTHAAAAAA” he yelled again, clapping his hand over his mouth.

Sherlock’s voice had grown hoarse from screaming her name but he followed suit. _Where could she have gone? Why wasn’t she answering them_ …Sherlock’s mind spun into hyper drive imagining her mauled and lifeless body just over the next hill, in the next ravine…What if she’d fallen? She’d clearly been drugged. Somehow Barrymore was in league with Mortimer and they’d decided to share in the wealth of the estate once Sir Charles had been disposed of. But how had they managed to murder him? The coroner’s records were precise. An extraordinarily large canine had indeed killed Sir Charles. There was no question. The idea that Barrymore could believe in the superstition that a female sacrifice would appease the Hound from Hell was preposterous given what he had to gain from its continued existence as an alibi. Sherlock had already called Lestrade requesting Barrymore and Mortimer be picked up for interrogation upon his return as he and John sprinted into the forest.

John stopped abruptly and his mouth fell open. “Sherlock…” he began feebly, _“Do…you see that?”_

Sherlock turned his gaze to the large, glowing spectre of what very much looked like a Hound from Hell staring down at them from atop the cliffside. The beast loomed over them, eliciting a low growl of warning and baring its teeth ferociously—Its eyes shining bright red against the darkness.

Just as he leveled the barrel of his pistol Sherlock saw the figure of Samantha stumbling over some boulders out of the corner of his eye. The curious expression on her face filled him with dread.

“Samantha, STOP!!” He wailed, desperate for her to listen. But she continued to make her way across the jutting rocks, her bare feet leaving little trails of blood in her wake. Blood that the dog would smell. It turned towards her, and her arms parted as though to hug it into submission. She was only a few feet away. Too close. If he missed he might hit her instead of the dog and if he hit the dog she might fall from the shock. His panicked mind searched for John to ask if he could make a shot but John’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. That didn’t happen to John. The gas. It _was_ carbon monoxide gas. They had to get out of there or they would die from exposure. As it was they’d probably only been breathed in a moderate amount because they were still conscious. But clearly they weren’t seeing what Samantha was seeing. Even still Sherlock was certain this was a creature that had the propensity to kill.

“Samantha!!!” Sherlock called again, but she didn’t even look at him. She was only a few feet away from the dog now, which still appeared to him to be seething with rage. He cursed himself. He had no choice. “MARIANNE!!!!!!!!!” He thundered in despair.

Her fingers paused just before they touched the canine’s muzzle.

“Please… _please,_ Marianne. Just move away from the dog.” Sherlock begged her, begged her to be coherent enough to listen. To do as she was told…

“No.” Her voice sounded so small and she began to reach for the dog again. Was it wagging its tail? Marianne would have been 6. Or 7. What would a 6 or 7-year-old want?

“If…you come go back to the other side of the cliff, Marianne, I’ll buy you a teddy bear.” Samantha scoffed at his meager attempt to bribe her with such a small favor.

“I’ll buy you a pony!” _God this was embarrassing._

She continued to ignore him. What did children want? He looked at John, but his friend was mesmerized by the display of affection Samantha had for the animal. “Sherlock...” John whispered and nodded at expediency of the scene.

In a moment of inspiration Sherlock lied, “Marianne, if you get away from there right now. _Right now._ I will let you keep that dog. But you must move away. _Right. Now_.” In horror Sherlock saw the dog bend its head and paint a big lick on the side of Samantha’s face.

“Ok,” she giggled triumphantly. Jesus Christ. They would _never_ have children.

Samantha made her way across the slope of the ravine—looking _very_ sure on her feet for someone who should have been drugged. Sherlock remembered reading about how some parts of a dissociative’s brain could become active when anesthetized for surgical procedures. Barrymore likely dosed her tea or coffee with Lorazepam, Ketamine, or some other ingestible anaesthetic. It would never have occurred to Samantha she might be drugged by someone at the inn given her warm reception. Depending on the dosage and her tolerance she should return to normal within a couple hours at most. Judging by the bruised and bloody soles of her feet the drug was blocking her pain receptors rather nicely. He wondered if she had a resistance to benzodiazepines after being dosed with them for so many years of her childhood—or if they had been a primary means for her dissociation to be triggered.

Sherlock really wasn’t prepared for a relationship with the alter of Marianne, who had a penchant for wandering into the woods like a feral child. At least this time she wasn’t naked, and she seemed to have stuck to the high ground on her rampage—away from any dangerous fumes. Samantha hopped down from the last boulder towards the two men, who had made their way out of the ravine. She was obviously pleased with her bargaining finesse and he was surprised how even her micro expressions were consistent with a pre-adolescent. Sherlock approached her slowly and wrapped his Belstaff around her, threading her arms into the long sleeves. Now, in his oversize coat, she really did look childish. He pulled her into his arms and she struggled a bit in reproach before she smelled him and buried her face in his chest.

“Oh good. You’re a friend then.” John sounded relieved and exasperated. Samantha eyed him guardedly and John looked a little hurt. “I’m John. What’s your name?”

“Marianne,” came the muffled reply from Sherlock’s chest. She opened one eye and examined John before deciding he was trustworthy enough and pointing back up to the cliff. “You go get the doggy.”

“Ahhh…I think the doggy is going to follow us home, sweetheart,” John winced, imploring Sherlock to back him up.

Sherlock felt the terrific urge to tell Samantha John would be happy to retrieve the gigantic puppy for her. He sighed and bent down to her face, “It will find its way back with us. I promise.” He thought he was lying but as they made their way across the craggy moors the dog did follow them, wagging it’s tail obediently as Sherlock carried Samantha piggyback style. Before long the dog no longer appeared to be a voracious beast from hell, but rather an _extremely large_ Great Pyrenees. Of course, if you were high on carbon monoxide it might seem like a glowing apparition. How was he going to get that creature into his flat?


	15. Traitors of Kind

“What’s that supposed to be?” One of the men from the tavern pointed to the happy go lucky Great Pyrenees that bumbled after Samantha, wagging its tail and licking the wounds on her feet. “That’s no hound!” He added in disgust and called to the villagers inside.

“No, _obviously_ it is not a gigantic hound from hell.” Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance. “But it _is_ the dog that attacked Sir Charles.”

“NO!” Samantha wailed, still in her childish voice. “Put me down!” She kicked at his sides cruelly but he held on for fear she’d try to run again.

“Sherlock.” John motioned to the figure of a man approaching them as he caught Samantha, who’d decided a kamikaze fall backwards was her best bet at release.

John held onto her gently but firmly, and whispered something in her ear. It sounded very much like he’d just told Samantha Sherlock was about to do something amazing and to just watch.

“Isn’t that Barrymore’s dog?” One of the men pointed at the dog in question in disbelief.

“Oy, that’s my dog alright. And that is certainly not a vicious beast. Just look at the way she’s bobbing around the young lady’s feet!” Barrymore gestured and the crowd nodded in agreement. He turned to Sherlock and grinned before adding, “Anyone can see these Londoners don’t know a threat when they see one. And the lass there is clearly a nutter—”

Sherlock was on him before Barrymore could continue, grabbing the man by the throat and squeezing his windpipe. “Say. That. Again. _You bloody Murderer_.” Sherlock felt the heat of his anger begin to overtake him. He’d had enough of these people. Their audience gasped in a slurry of murmurs. Barrymore calling Samantha a nutter was taking him past the point of exercising reason.

Barrymore looked panicked and his eyes bulged from the compression of his airway as he tried in vain to get Sherlock to release his grip.

“Sherlock!” Inspector Lestrade chirped happily enough as he came around the corner of the inn, having just parked his car. “I’m so glad you were able to retrieve him for me. Barrymore, I presume?”

Sherlock grimaced, releasing his captive reluctantly into the waiting arms of his…well his forth pet. The only one that truly walked itself. “Lestrade,” Sherlock gritted his teeth. “Please escort this man somewhere… _private_.” He turned to Samantha and John, who both stood wide-eyed in apprehension. Samantha’s eyes brightened considerably. Clearly she thought he _had_ done something amazing and that made him smile a little inwardly.

The foursome made their way into a room in the back of the inn where they could not be disturbed by curious onlookers. The dog followed dutifully, though Sherlock wasn’t sure if she was following her master or Samantha anymore. Before Samantha could say anything in front of Lestrade, Sherlock whispered to John, “Once the dog is inside with us I want you to take Samantha upstairs to our room. Immediately. There’s no reason for Lestrade to see her in this state.”

“Or for her to see the dog put down?” John was hesitant to see the creature destroyed as well now that he saw it was so obviously friendly, but he wasn’t going to let Samantha witness such a thing.

 _“Of course not! I’m not going to put the dog down!”_ Sherlock nearly spat at John, who looked dumbfounded.

“Right then. Come along now, love. Let’s get those feet of yours cleaned up. They hurt now don’t they? Sherlock will be up in a bit…” John soothed in Samantha’s ear, careful not to use her current moniker of Marianne where anyone could hear. As far as anyone needed to know she was only drugged, not dissociating as another person entirely.

Samantha looked hesitantly at John, but then took his hand and squeezed. The trusting look she gave Sherlock over her shoulder as she departed broke his heart. He was determined to do everything in his power to save her adoptive pet. Though it would most certainly not be joining them in the flat and he doubted very seriously she’d be allowed to keep such a beast at her flat in London either. He _would_ however keep it from being destroyed.

Lestrade grinned at Sherlock and thrust Barrymore into a seated position at the table for interrogation. The inspector seemed to thoroughly enjoy this part of the investigation—when Sherlock divulged all the revelations of a case with foolproof evidence. Sherlock sneered at Barrymore, who put on a brave and indignant face, but whose body trembled slightly under Sherlock’s scrutiny.

“Perhaps you could save us some trouble and tell us the command you issued to your dog that turned it into a murderous wildebeest?” Sherlock began, “Or would you like to start with what drug you gave my _wife_ at afternoon tea?” He gritted his teeth in the hopes Lestrade might let him use a less verbal means of persuasion with the suspect.

Lestrade’s jaw dropped. “You… _YOUR WIFE?”_ Suddenly the inspector became focused on an entirely different line of questioning. Sherlock glared at him to be silent and Lestrade shook his head disbelievingly.

“Yeah, the nutt—the young lady,” Barrymore corrected himself and averted his gaze. “I was telling her about my work at the manner with the Baskervilles. It was a pleasant conversation. Then she just got up and walked outside… none of my business where she got to. Clearly wasn’t in her right mind…” He looked up at Lestrade, as though he was imploring the inspector to listen to reason even if Sherlock wouldn’t.

“Do you have the sample kit I requested?” Sherlock directed his question at Lestrade but kept his gaze level with Barrymore’s. Lestrade nodded. “Excellent. Then you won’t mind if we swab your fingers and send it off to the lab. That _will_ take some time I’m afraid. So you’ll have to remain in police custody. Don’t worry though, I have some _friends_ who can keep you company.”

Ah, good. Barrymore received the message. “Look…” Barrymore mumbled with a wince. “It wasn’t like the lass was in any danger. She’s fine now eh? Tilly here,” he gestured to the giant white dog that had taken up residence under the table by his leg, “wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Sherlock remained mute but his eyes shone with the sort of rage that was not lost on its intended recipient.

Barrymore squeezed his hands into tight fists and growled, “Yeah. Fine. Dr. Mortimer asked me to give her a little something just to make her…more suggestible to the idea of exploring the woods. You’ve heard the legend. Weren’t gonna let her get hurt none. Just wanted to shake things up a bit, y’see?”

“Yes. I am aware that the mythical beast craves the blood of a woman if not a Baskerville heir. And what, pray tell, might you have given Samantha to solicit her cooperation?” Sherlock loomed with his hands positioned on either side of Barrymore, closing him in. “No. Wait, on second thought, let me tell you what it is.”

Barrymore’s jaw dropped and Lestrade grinned broadly.

“I think if we search your rooms we will discover a Class B drug—Ketamine. You do deal with a lot of animals at the estate don’t you? Though this would be administered orally not intravenously. Wouldn’t do to leave any marks on _my wife_ would it?” Sherlock paused and Barrymore flinched. “Ketamine is nasty stuff. Hallucinations, dissociation, amnesia. But I’m sure you know that. It would certainly suit your story if a raving mad woman came back from the woods screaming about some phantom killer dog.”

Barrymore nodded almost unperceptively.

“Lestrade, any forensic accountant worth their salt will find a trail of deposits to this man’s account made by Dr. Mortimer. It’s obvious they have much invested in their _partnership_.” Then Sherlock lowered his face to Barrymore’s in a primal act of aggression. “You are so _very_ lucky my wife has not shown any of the more dangerous symptoms associated with the misuse of the drug you administered. So lucky in fact that I am going to give you an opportunity to tell me the command you issued to Tilly to brutally massacre Sir Charles. If you are so kind as to part with this information I will overlook the necessity to discover it on my own. I _will_ need a participant in that experiment should I be forced to abandon Samantha for such a paltry errand. Unless _you_ are volunteering?”

Barrymore shook his head dumbly in horror. “Good man,” Sherlock smiled and clenched his captive’s shoulder. “Lestrade will look after you then,” Sherlock glanced at the inspector, who nodded he was free to attend to the more pressing matter upstairs.

“We’ll talk later then,” Lestrade asked with a little snicker. “I’m eager to meet this wife of yours. And oh, yeah sure I’ll go grab Dr. Mortimer too so long as I’m here?”

Sherlock grinned wickedly. “Ever the good public servant Lestrade. My commendations.” With a flurry of a bow Sherlock jogged through the back of the inn and up the stairs where John and Samantha were waiting.


	16. They’re Watching My Every Sound

Samantha had already fallen asleep in their bed when Sherlock entered the room. John was stationed nearby, his arms and legs crossed in apprehension. He stayed silent as Sherlock hurried to Samantha’s side and took her pulse. Normal. Then the ketamine hadn’t affected her cardiovascular system. He hoped her central nervous system was also unaffected, but that assessment would have to wait until morning. He dragged another chair opposite John and wiped his face in frustration.

“She seems well enough physically,” John began and then laughed nervously. “She kept kicking my hands and giggling when I tried to wash her feet. Ah, no, before you ask the cuts weren’t bad. Very superficial.”

Sherlock held both his hands over his mouth as though in prayer. What could he do while she was unconscious? How long until they’d be able to determine if any permanent damage had occurred? How long until he would know if Samantha or Marianne or even Angela would be the one to wake up? John was a doctor. Sherlock was only a detective who could stand by and watch.

John achemed and shifted in his seat with a frown. “Who,” he began tentatively, “Who is Marianne?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he looked away to the window. Did they really have to discuss this now?

“Ta, yeah well we have nothing else to do have we?” John somehow read his mind. “I’ve already met Angela. But neither you nor Samantha mentioned a ‘Marianne’. But you knew— _you knew_ —what to call her out there in the hollow.”

Sherlock opened his mouth but John interrupted him. “Don’t. Lie to me, Sherlock. Don’t make that face. It’s been a bloody long night and I’m in no mood for your antics. Seeing as how I’m your partner I feel sure one of you would have mentioned this new development to me hmm?”

“She’s 6. Or 7.” Sherlock shrugged helplessly.

“Yeah I figured that part out thanks. Anything else?” John was getting more flustered. Suddenly realization dawned on John’s face and it collapsed into an angry snarl. “Fucking Mycroft.”

Sherlock lowered his head into his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. He looked up at John, who measured him with disgust.

“Sherlock,” John snorted, “going through a lady’s phone, going through her purse, or even going through her closet is one thing. But going through her file?” He stood up and began rubbing his lower lip with his right thumb, the visible sign that Sherlock was in seriously deep trouble.

“John I had to. I had to.” Sherlock felt a sense of desperation wash over him. If he couldn’t convince John his intentions were pure there was no way Samantha was going to buy his story. He gestured to her sleeping form on the bed, “John…” his voice wavered. “She was afraid of me.”

John stopped and gaped at him. Then, with a look of resignation he asked, “When, Sherlock? When did you get the file? Did you ask for it or did your shitty brother leave it for you like some sick present?”

“After the airport. He left it for me after the airport. But I didn’t read it then.” Sherlock felt like he was begging for forgiveness from the wrong person but persisted. “I didn’t read it until I was desperate. I wanted to help her. _I swear, John. Please._ ”

“Oh God, you are an idiot, Sherlock. You really are.” John covered his eyes with one hand in frustration. But he seemed to be calming down now, willing himself to believe in his friend against the odds. He let out a long sigh. “You’d better hope she doesn’t remember tonight then Sherlock. You’ve no right to ask me to keep this from her.”

“No. I suppose I don’t.” Sherlock winced and proceeded as carefully as he dared. “But will you?”


	17. Thought I Had A Witness

“So…” Samantha began hesitantly with a frown, “I did help.”

“Yes! I could not have done it without you.” Sherlock smiled a rather disproportionately large smile. He was obviously desperate and Samantha allowed herself to enjoy the moment.

Sherlock explained to her what happened as soon as she awoke that morning, groggy and sore from her exploits the previous evening. She didn’t know what she’d been doing, but she was reasonably sure it was under the visage of Marianne given the state of her feet. The awkward sort of questions she received from Sherlock and John were another indicator something more was amiss than having been drugged by a suspect. Samantha wanted to have some choice words with Mr. Barrymore, but Sherlock assured her the man would never bother her again.

“He’s not…dead is he?” She asked suspiciously.

“No this one will make it to trial,” John laughed a little too hard at the joke.

“And the dog? You said I found the dog?”

Sherlock smiled and squeezed her hand. “Yes, and it’s fine. Just like I promised. Mr. Barrymore was enthusiastic about keeping her alive.”

Samantha felt intense relief at that. She vaguely remembered the feeling of soft white fur under her fingers and a cuddly kiss from a _very_ large dog. “Good,” she grinned then shot suddenly. “Perhaps one of you gentleman would like to explain what you’re keeping from me then?”

Both of the men blanched and looked very much like fish. Samantha giggled despite her intentions to remain severe. She sighed, “Just get on with it. How embarrassing was it to see me…like that?”

Sherlock and John visibly relaxed. Well. The cat was out of the bag so to speak. They’d better address the issue before they hurt themselves trying to keep the secret from her.

“You were…” John began and looked to the ceiling for inspiration.

“Enchanting.” Sherlock finished for him.

Samantha scowled. This was not the description of Marianne she remembered hearing about from her foster parents. Marianne had been integrated, or so she thought, into her psyche several years ago. The drug she’d been administered seemed to have knocked something loose.

Sherlock began to snort with laughter. “Really. You were quite charming,” he assured her and added, “You wanted to keep the dog.”

“He tried to bribe you with a teddy bear and pony to come back home first.” John smirked and pointed to Sherlock, who winced in irritation.

“A pony?” Samantha fell backwards in a fit of laughter onto the bed. Poor Sherlock. She wondered if any of the rescue squads had ever tried those lines on her when she was a child. And Sherlock was blushing so sweetly. “Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for that.” She leaned over and gave him a kiss. “I don’t think I’m allowed to have any pets at my apartment so the dog will have to be rehomed elsewhere.”

“Oh thank God.” Sherlock was visibly relieved by this observation.

“You’ll just have to make it up to me in other ways then,” she chided and Sherlock’s eyes lit with mischief.

“And that’s my cue,” John moaned and rolled his eyes as he exited the room. “Christ, maybe you _should_ get married.”

“One last thing though,” Samantha wondered, “Why did Dr. Mortimer come to you in the first place to ask for an investigation if he was in league with Barrymore to commit the murder? Surely he knew better than to underestimate your abilities as a Master Detective?” Samantha made sure to include the word ‘master’ to stroke Sherlock’s ego a bit as a prelude to stroking other things.

Sherlock preened and grinned knowingly. “It would seem he and Barrymore had a bit of a falling out over how the estate should be divided once Sir Henry sold it. At a loss of course. Mortimer wanted to divert attention to Barrymore and his dog under the ruse of giving me an unsolvable case.”

“That seems like a rather dangerous gamble.” Samantha observed with a frown.

“Once someone has committed murder they have a tendency to miscalculate their abilities in that realm. As the executor of Henry’s estate Dr. Mortimer knew about the carbon monoxide emissions from the abandoned mine in the area that were causing the townspeople to hallucinate and saw an opportunity for exploitation. Over a dozen people witnessed the Hound from Hell of legend in the hollow. If anything Tilly was a plausible guard dog against such a beast so long as Barrymore made sure she didn’t stray from the estate unless commanded. Of course she _did_ eat Sir Henry’s boots.”

“Hmmm…so what do we do now?” Samantha asked, feeling somewhat sad the adventure was really over.

“Now…” Sherlock began as he ran a hand from her neck down her body to grope her ass. “Now we finish our honeymoon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for Part 4! I hope you enjoyed it. I've got one last part to post and then I think that's it for A Cat in Gloves. I'd like to try my hand at writing Johnlock ;} Thanks for reading!
> 
> PS: I will start my foray in the the dark world of BDSM in next part of this series. If I get out enough sex scenes the next work may end up being longer than anticipated.


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